Away In a Hansom Cab
by Wordwielder
Summary: My contribution this year for Hades' December Challenge!
1. Mary

**Hello everyone! I'm so excited for this year's challenge! Here we go...**

 **1\. From Aleine Skyfire - Mary goes on an adventure. Bonus points if she has a sidekick.**

 ** _"Briefly," she continued, "the facts are these. My father was an officer in an Indian regiment who sent me home when I was quite a child."_**

 ** _-The Sign of the Four,_ Sir Arthur Conan Doyle **

"Papa," Mary Morstan asked, tugging at her father's sleeve. "May I go outside to play?"

"Hm?" Papa was distracted, pouring over grown-up papers.

"May I go outside to play?" she repeated. "I've finished my letters and my chores. Nanny says I may play."

"Put on something to protect your skin dear, you'll burn terribly like that," he said absentmindedly. "Don't go far, and be back before tea."

Mary beamed. "Thank you, Papa!"

Papa hadn't probably meant for her to dress in the dresses the natives had given her, but Mary put it on anyway, along with a head scarf. She liked the bright, loose langa and choli much better than the thick, proper English dresses Nanny made her wear. "You can't run around dressed like a heathen, Miss Morstan," she liked to say. Mary didn't think the other children were heathens; heathens couldn't be so fun. But Nanny disagreed.

"Don't go far," Papa had said. How far was far? She could probably leave the courtyard, she decided, and the immediate compound. Was the market off limits? Mary loved it there. It was bustling and exotic and interesting. It was too late for the morning traders, but there would maybe be snake charmers or magic men out, calling to passerby. Maybe she could go even further out, to the pools and the grasses and plants Aaditya had showed her when her mother sent her to market and Mary snuck away from Nanny to tag along.

"Be careful, Mary," Aaditya had warned in her soft, lilting voice. "Out here there are snakes and wild things. Tigers will eat a man-child whole." Mary wasn't sure whether she had been utterly serious.

Mary should like to see a tiger. Though she wouldn't want one to _eat_ her.

The forest it was, Mary thought.

Mary sat by the water, humming to herself and weaving a doll out of dry grass, for some time, before wandering further toward the plains. She found a small cave and wandered in, hoping to find cave art or geodes.

Instead, Mary Morstan found what she had been hoping to see.

Tigers.

They were small, sleepy balls of fluff, huddled together, breathing as one entity. Almost like big kittens, Mary thought with delight. if she had met their mother, who was stalking meat for her cubs, Miss Mary Morstan would have never have lived long enough to end up in England and go on the next great adventure of her life, but the likelihood of meeting her end did even cross her mind.

"Oh, aren't you precious," Mary cooed, dropping to her knees by the sleeping cubs. "So little. I expect you're just children, like me." She reached out her hand and stroked the fur of the nearest cub, who yawned, revealing small fangs. Mary sat, entranced, for some time, watching the sleeping cubs, before she saw the sinking sun through the mouth of the cave.

"Oh, I'm late- Papa will be cross!" she gasped. "I must go, little cubs." She gathered her skirt and stood to go- then hesitated.

Why not take one?

The other children had pets to keep them company. Mary was awfully lonely. She didn't have any English children to talk to, and Nanny often wouldn't let her play with the natives. Papa might let her keep a pet if she promised to take good care of it, and oh, she would!

She carefully picked up the smallest cub, curled by its siblings at the edge of the pile. The cub stirred, by sighed and fell back asleep when Mary hushed it. She kissed its fur softly and hurried off to home- oh, wouldn't Papa be surprised!

Captain Morstan certainly _was_ surprised when his child skipped into dinner, beaming, and held up a wild cat with the delighted declaration: "I named her Naisha! Please, please, Papa, may I keep her?"

It took a lot of convincing to get Mary to relinquish her "pet" and a promise to buy her a nice orange kitty to soften to blow before she allowed her father to deposit the cub back near its cave (and run, before its furious, roaring mother caught up to him).

 **Hope you enjoyed!**


	2. Poinsettias

**2\. Poinsettia- silvermouse.**

"Obviously he was poisoned," Gregson said, pointing with his foot to the poinsettias clutched in the dead's man hand.

Holmes smiled, opening his mouth, surely about to deliver some condescending remark about Gregson's assumptions, but Watson beat him to it.

"Very unlikely,I'd say,"Watson replied. "Poinsettias aren't actually toxic. The worse they could do to a man would be to induce a mild allergic reaction. That's just an old wives' tale."

"Oh," Gregson said lamely. "You're certain?"

"Oh, yes. He'd have to have digested hundreds of leaves to even fall ill."

"Well, that eliminates the gardener then," Gregson sighed. "And _he's_ the only one with a motive."

"Not quite," Holmes said suddenly. "He was indeed poisoned. Look." He moved the flowers over the dead man's hands aside. "Look at these _leukonychia striata_."

"Lines on the nails,"Watson translated for Gregson's sake. "It's a symptom of arsenic poisoning."

"Check the cook," Holmes said. "I believe you'll find his relationship with the Lady of the manor is not strictly professional."

"I knew Christmas stars couldn't be the culprit," Watson chuckled. "A bit holy for that, they are."

"You get more romantic every year," Holmes said, shaking his head.


	3. Cards

**3\. From Riandra - Christmas cards**

Watson neatly organized their various cards on the mantle. One from Mrs. Hudson; one from the Lestrades; one from the Gregsons; the Hopkins'; the MacPhersons; Stamford; Murray; Mary's distant cousins in America; Mrs. Forester; even a handmade illustration and note from those "dear little ragamuffins" (as Mary called them fondly) that he had found pinned to their door early one morning.

"Does Holmes ever send a card, dear?" Mary asked, slipping beside him and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"I don't believe so," he answered. "I've never known him to. Hm," he said thoughtfully. Mary eyed him. "Looks like you've had an idea."

"I might have," he said vaguely. "I've got to run an errand, love. I'll be home in a bit."

* * *

It took a predictable twelve hours before Holmes was banging on his door.

"What are you up to?" Holmes demanded before Watson even finished opening the door. "I've had dozens of messages thanking me for the card I sent! I sent no card!"

"Hm, how mysterious," Watson said, feigning surprise.

Holmes glared.

"Here's the one you sent me," Watson added, grabbing a card from the mantle. "Here, examine it. For clues, as it were."

Grudgingly, Holmes said, "You could have done worse. It's not too frivolous. Plain stationery, short message. If I were inclined to indulge, it would do."

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Scrooge," Watson grinned.

Thereafter, Holmes sent a plain card to his closest circle for Christmas- if only to prevent Watson from sending one anyway.

 **Sorry I'm behind! My birthday is December 3, and that and the end of classes got me a bit behind.**


	4. Umbrella

**4\. From mrspencil - Mrs Hudson, an umbrella and a priceless vase**

It all happened so quickly.

Watson was carefully carrying the priceless vase they had just recovered from a smuggling ring, moments before it would have been lost, down the 17 steps, watching each step he took. Holmes was eyeing the operation from the landing.

Then Sport streaked out of the flat, yipping frantically as he chased after a blur of motion; _"Damn it, Holmes!"_ Watson shouted. _"I told you to lock up the mice!_ "

He tried to dodge the inevitable collision on such a narrow stair, but the mouse and Sport ran right into his feet; he stumbled, clinging to the vase, and almost regained control before Sport skid on the carpet's end, pulling it taut under Watson's feet and making his master topple forward. The vase went flying, and both men shouted.

As the vase slipped from Watson's hands, the door opened, and Mrs. Hudson came in, snapping the clasp on her umbrella shut. "It's raining ca-" Her eyes lit upon the vase sailing towards her, and she held her umbrella defensively, like a sword-

"Mrs. Hudson!" Holmes cried.

-and caught it neatly on the tip of her umbrella.

"Ooh, lucky catch," she said cheerfully, carefully taking the vase and transferring it to Holmes. "That would have been quite a mess, wouldn't it?"

"You have no idea how right you are," Holmes replied.


	5. Don't Touch It

**5\. From Madam'zelleGiry - "I told you not to touch it!"**

Holmes quietly crept in the kitchen. The mixing bowls were all here, full of various ingredients, and the oven was heating. She was gone, but would return soon; she had only gone to the store cupboard. He could hear her humming faintly. He must be quick getting the sample.

He reached for a bowl, intending to grab just a pinch and deposit it in his beaker; she'd never know the difference-

"Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson scolded, her hand on one hip and sack of flour clutched in the other hand. "I told you not to touch it! You'll not deduce my ingredients from texture! Out of my kitchen this instant!"

"My dear lady-" he began.

"OUT!" She thundered and he accepted defeat, puttering back to the flat.

"Really," she muttered, turning back to her mixing bowls. "Trying to put his hands that've been heaven knows where in my cake mix. It's like the boy was raised by wolves."

 **I love this prompt but it took me a million tries before I found the right way to incorporate it. Everyone enjoying the challenge thus far?**


	6. Fluffy

**6\. From Domina Temporis - Fluffy**

 **I decided to continue the saga of Tabby, a stray who previously starred in Chapter 11 of a past December Challenge Work, Christmas and Crooks. It's not strictly necessary you read that, though.**

"Aw, she's cute, ain't she?" Wiggins said, scratching Tabby's ears. The other boys crowded around him, reaching to pet whatever part of the cat they could reach. Tabby, for his part, closed his eyes and stretched out, purring contentedly.

"He," Holmes corrected. "A fine creature, for a cat."

"You 'ad 'im long, Mr. 'Olmes?"

"Oh, Tabby passes in and out as he pleases. I first made his acquaintance several years ago. He spends most of his time with us here, particularly on the chill nights, but he gets restless every now and then and goes to haunt the alleyways."

"'E's so fluffy," little Arthur murmured, burying his fingers in Tabby's soft fur.

"He wasn't always so fine a specimen," Watson said with a smile at Holmes. "When he first wandered in, he was skinny as a rail and matted all over. Fresh milk and scraps will work wonders. Eh, boys?"

"Speakin' of," Alfie looked up hopefully.

Watson laughed. "Yes, yes, supper is forthcoming."

Tabby opened his eyes and narrowed them at his humans.

"For you, too," Holmes reassured.


	7. Decorating

**7\. From Madam'zelleGiry - Lestrade and Watson have a grim assignment: putting up the Yard's Christmas tree.**

 **Hello all! It's a relief to be writing for fun again- I've been working on a research paper all day. Also, I have been pitiful at replying to reviews, but thank all of you a thousand times over for your amazing response on these! You all make my day!**

"Tinsel?"

"Tinsel."

"Candles?"

"Candles."

"Bows?"

"Bows."

"Ornaments?"

"Ornaments."

"I suppose we are ready to begin then," Watson said, checking his watch. "Alright. We have just over one hour before the rest of the Yard and Holmes come along to make our jobs more difficult."

"Will that be enough time?" Lestrade asked, eyeing the massive tree, which still had to be wrangled into its tree stand and positioned properly. The Inspectors had all chipped in, and the Commissioner had been uncommonly generous in his allocation of funds for decorating Scotland Yard. Should he and the Doctor succeed, the tree would be the brightest and most beautiful tree the Yard had put up in Lestrade's entire career.

The Doctor smiled. "It will have to be. Let us begin."


	8. Teaching

**8\. From cjnwriter - Teaching**

The sound of footsteps on the stairs roused me from my novel. "Holmes?" I called as I heard the door open. I relaized the presence of a second, nearly soundless pair of feet just as Holmes said, "And guest!"

Holmes glided to his chair, Wiggins padding after with a beaming face.

"And what have you been up to?" I asked.

"Mr. 'Olmes 'as been teaching me how to identify the regional mud of London!" Wiggins answered, clearly excited. I couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm.

"What can you tell me of Watson's dalliances today?" Holmes quizzed, pointing to my shoes in the corner.

Wiggins picked them up and examined one scarcely an inch from his nose, his face a mask of almost comical concentration.

"Covent Garden," he said, and Holmes smiled. "Excellent work. Go run and ask Mrs. Hudson if she's got any leftovers for you."

Wiggins raced downstairs, and Holmes sank back in his chair.

"So you're teaching Wiggins your methods?"

"Yes. He's getting older, and I believe in a few years he may be ready for entrance to the police force. I should like to put _someone_ capable in Scotland Yard."

'I think it's wonderful," I said, picking up my novel again. "I'm sure he could go far."

"Yes," Holmes agreed thoughtfully. "Next I'll teach him how to see profession on a person. There's much to show him."

 **I've always liked the headcanon of Wiggins joining the Force.**


	9. Snowed In

**From Madam'zelleGiry - Holmes, Watson, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson are snowed into 221B for the foreseeable future.**

Holmes peered out of the window, and tutted. "I think our outing will not be happening after all, Watson. The snow is falling so quickly, we shall have a foot within two hours. I suppose we shall simply have to-"

"Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson called from the landing. "Your brother has just arrived. I'll bring some tea up."

"Mycroft?" Holmes frowned. "What the deuce?"

"I hope no more precious state documents have been nabbed in _this_ weather," Watson said as Mycroft's large frame glided through the door.

"Hello, brother mine," he said as warmly as Mycroft ever did. "Hello, Doctor Watson."

"Lovely evening for a visit," Holmes said wryly. "What brings you to us?"

"Poor timing," Mycroft said. "My cabbie refused to bear me home in such weather, and yours was the closest place of refuge I could think of."

"We're happy to have you," Watson said, with a chiding glance at Sherlock. "Please, sit."

Mrs. Hudson bustled in with a tea tray, setting it on the sidebar.

"Why don't you sit with us a while, Mrs. Hudson?" Watson asked. "You deserve a rest."

"Ah, thank you, dear," she beamed, sitting in their chair usually reserved for clients. "It's been a long day, and the cold sets my hip aching."

"Well," Holmes said, "What shall we occupy ourselves with for the foreseeable future?"

* * *

At first, it was just Holmes and Watson playing poker. Holmes was better at deducing tells, but Watson's long days in the army had made him very skilled at the game.

Then Mrs. Hudson asked to join. Her lodgers shrugged, dealing her in.

"Sherlock," Mycroft tried to warn. 'I wouldn't-"

"Now, Mycroft, let Mrs. Hudson enjoy herself," Sherlock said dismissively.

Only a few hands later, Martha Hudson had crushed them both, leaving her tenants in a state of perplexed shock.

"I tried to warn you, Sherlock," Mycroft smirked. "Her body language told me she knew she would win. You should be wary of seeming innocence."

"Elder Mr. Holmes, do you think I could beat _you_?" Mrs. Hudson smiled.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Bring it on, my dear woman."

When the snow thawed, Mrs. Hudson had quite a bit of pocket change to spend.


	10. Comfort

**10\. From Domina Temporis - One of the Irregulars is upset and Holmes is at a loss.**

He had looked on the verge of tears as he recited his afternoon's observations, and Holmes had no idea when he asked little Arthur what was wrong it would end up like _this_. Arthur had barreled into his lap, sniffling, and buried his head in the detective's stomach, sobbing out an explanation so quickly and coarsely Holmes feared he was missing major details. So far he gathered a bigger, richer boy had said mean things about Arthur and his family, and Arthur was distraught.

"An' then he said me mum was a- a mean word, I shan't like to say it aloud in your presence, Mister 'Olmes- and I was just a dirty li'l street rat and to top it all off, he threw a few pennies at me and said 'that's more'n you deserve, beggar, but I bet your mum won't make much more on the corner!"' With that, Arthur turned his face into Holmes' ribs and cried all the harder.

Oh, heavens, where was Watson when you needed him? He would know how to soothe Arthur properly, how to make him smile again.

"Sh, it's alright," Holmes said awkwardly, stroking over Arthur's hair. "Where did you say this happened?"

"O'er by Lambeth Palace," Arthur sniffed.

"Now, this boy might not be so well-off as you think, lad," Holmes said. "Mere proximity to a palace does not make one a prince. There's many working-class neighborhoods in that area, as well. Most likely this boy's home is poor and rough, and he targeted you to make himself feel bigger. But that says more on him than you, doesn't it?"

Arthur wiped at his eyes. "I s'pose."

"What would you say to some tea and cake, my lad?" Holmes asked. "You deserve a bit of rest. You can take some home, if you like."

Arthur smiled tremulously. "Sounds real nice, Mister 'Olmes."

 **Man, I adored this prompt. Sorry it's so late! I've had finals and Christmas stuff keeping me busy. I intend to catch up as soon as possible!**


	11. Holly and Ivy

**11\. From KnightFury - Holly and ivy**

"And you, you vagabond, are going to Scotland Yard where you can never hurt your wife in such a way again," Holmes scolded. The culprit, an embezzler and a miserable drunkard, hissed. "She deserved everything!"

Mrs. Sanderson burst into tears, then suddenly shrieked in pain. "Oh!" Our client cried, clutching at her heavily pregnant stomach. _"Oh_ \- I- Doctor, it h-hurts!"

The lady's snarling husband, handcuffed to our settee and Holmes at his elbow, froze; I sprang for my bag, realizing what the dark stains on the lady's skirts meant.

"Get on the couch, Mrs. Sanderson," I cried. She stumbled forward, sinking into the cushions.

"Is the baby coming?" she panted.

"I'm afraid so, my dear," I said. "We're going to take care of you and your baby. Holmes, get that crook out of here and into Lestrade's hands, and then hurry back."

"Yes," Holmes said faintly, tugging the man to the stairs.

"Alright, dear, let's begin, alright? Stay with me, try to stay calm. Breathe in and out, and I'm going to move your skirts so I can see. We don't have time to get you to your regular physician; your baby is going to arrive in Baker Street."

"God help me," she whispered.

"Shh, shh, I'll get you some chloroform, but that's the best I can do for now. Your body is ready, and it will be quicker than you think."

Mrs. Sanderson proved her strength; she tried not to scream, and she pushed as hard as she could. Finally, the baby was close, and I looked her the eyes. "We're almost there. Keep going. Your baby is almost here."

With a final push, a weight slid into my hands, and I held a squalling little girl in my arms.

"You did it, Mrs. Sanderson," I smiled. "You've got a beautiful daughter."

For a moment, a tired smile lit her features, then she spasmed again.

"Oh," she gasped. "It still-"

I ducked my head to check, and grimaced. "I'm afraid you're not quite done yet, my dear. You've got another baby coming."

"Another!" she wailed.

"Shh, shh, it'll be over soon," I promised. "Let's keep at it. Mrs. Hudson!"

Mrs. Hudson, evidently lurking close to the door, burst in. "Mrs. Hudson, take this baby and scrub her clean, keep her warm. We've got to deliver her sibling."

"Alright, Doctor," Mrs. Hudson said, taking the damp, wailing baby from me.

The second baby came easier; soon, I held another screeching little girl close.

"You're done, dear," I told Mrs. Sanderson. "You did very well. Let me clean this girl up, and you can hold your children."

* * *

When I gave Holmes the all clear to come back in the room, he asked after our client's health and then, "What will you name them?"

Mrs. Sanderson smiled at her little bundled children, one in each arm. "Holly and Ivy." I followed her eyes to the wreath on the mantle. "When it hurt too much, I looked at your wreath to distract myself. Fine names for Christmas babies, aren't they?"

"Lovely," I agreed. Holmes nodded.


	12. What If

**12\. From Hades Lord of the Dead - What if Watson had never taken up lodgings with Holmes?**

 **This one proved difficult...it was crazy to imagine where they'd end up without each other.**

 _"IN the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan war had broken out. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my corps had advanced through the passes, and was already deep in the enemy's country. I followed, however, with many other officers who were in the same situation as myself, and succeeded in reaching Candahar in safety, where I found my regiment, and at once entered upon my new duties._

 _The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster. I was removed from my brigade and attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at the fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I should have fallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not been for the devotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly, who threw me across a pack-horse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to the British lines._

 _Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had undergone, I was removed, with a great train of wounded sufferers, to the base hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied, and had already improved so far as to be able to walk about the wards, and even to bask a little upon the verandah, when I was struck down by enteric fever, that curse of our Indian possessions. For months my life was despaired of, and when at last I came to myself and became convalescent, I was so weak and emaciated that a medical board determined that not a day should be lost in sending me back to England. I was dispatched, accordingly, in the troopship "Orontes," and landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty, with my health irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a paternal government to spend the next nine months in attempting to improve it._

 _I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as air—or as free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day will permit a man to be. Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. There I stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless, meaningless existence, and spending such money as I had, considerably more freely than I ought. So alarming did the state of my finances become, that I soon realized that I must either leave the metropolis and rusticate somewhere in the country, or that I must make a complete alteration in my style of living. Choosing the latter alternative, I began by making up my mind to leave the hotel, and to take up my quarters in some less pretentious and less expensive domicile."_

 _-A Study in Scarlet_

John Watson absently rubbed at his shoulder, where the cold seemed to make his old wound ache afresh. He gazed out over the snow, which was falling thicker with each passing moment. It was difficult to restrain the urge to let his mind wander, to what might have happened if he'd never had to leave London. He had received a letter at the hotel just before he intended to go search for lodgings. Hamish had finally broken the years of silence between them and told him frankly he was dying, and he hoped that his younger brother would come home to spend his last days with him.

John had to go, of course.

Hamish passed seven months later, and John thought about returning to London, but even with Hamish's inheritance, he couldn't afford it. So he stayed in Edinburgh, began working for a local practice, and then he met Ruth.

Ruth was beautiful and coy and spirited, and she lifted the fog he had stumbled through since he had returned from Afghanistan. They married in 1883, in a quiet, small ceremony, and moved into a small cottage in the countryside, where their days passed peacefully.

John didn't allow himself to think much about how he longed for more than peace. He had had enough noise and excitement for the rest of his natural existence. But in darker times, he thought about it.

What if he had stayed in London after all?

"I've got the paper, dear," Ruth called, bustling into the sitting room with the paper and a pot of hot tea.

 _He wouldn't have met his wife, though,_ he thought. "Thank you, darling," he said, kissing her cheek. She settled into the chair next to him, handing him a cup. He picked up the paper, scanning over it.

"Anything interesting, dear?" Ruth asked.

"Not much," John answered. "A famous English detective has died taking down a criminal in Switzerland."

"Oh, what's his name?"

"Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. Hm, I've never heard the name," he said.

* * *

Sherlock drew his cloak closer to his head. Even in the darkness, even in Italy, thousands of miles from home, his profile might be recognized.

Though he was relieved to see Moriarty gone, the work was unfinished. He had contemplated returning to England- only he was truly in danger, Mycroft would be safe- and he had no intimate friends.

He had tried to find a flatmate some years ago, but never found anyone who could bear his eccentricities. And so he remained on Montague Street, a terrible location for consulting, but he had gained some prominence. All relationships in his life were mostly based on convenience.

At least he had little to miss at home. Who knew when he'd get to be back in London?

* * *

 **So in this, John never ran into Stamford, so he never meet Holmes. This obviously has greater ramifications for Watson's lifestyle, but for Sherlock it's mainly isolation, and he's also less well-known because Watson never wrote about his exploits and his claim to fame would have been mostly subtle mentions in the newspapers. This one was sad, but I really enjoyed thinking it out!**


	13. Slip on the Ice

**13\. From KnightFury - A slip on the ice**

"Well," Watson yawned. "At least now we can head home, and-"

Suddenly, he slipped forward on a unseen patch of black ice, yelping as he landed flat on his back.

Holmes bit his lip, trying not to laugh at the sight of his friend sprawled on the ground, and Watson narrowed his eyes.

"Let me help you, old boy," Holmes said, stretching out his hand. Watson took it with a glint in his eye and moved to sit up; instead, he used his weight to yank Holmes to the ground next to him.

"Oof!" Holmes groaned. He turned his head, intending to chide his friend, but one look at his face, like a schoolboy caught pulling off a successful prank, made him lose his composure completely; he burst into raucous laughter, and Watson joined in. Neither moved to stand up until Lestrade started calling for them. Then they scrambled up to avoid explaining why two grown men were laying in the street giggling.


	14. Stuck

**14\. From Riandra - Stuck in the chimney  
**

"And here comes Father Christmas," Holmes says to the gathered group of Irregulars whispering excitedly as black boots hit the hearth. Then there's a thump, and a grunt, but the big man doesn't emerge from the fireplace. **  
**

Holmes draws closer, telling the boys to stay patient.

"Holmes!" Watson hisses. "I'm stuck!"

"Oh, good lord," Holmes said.

"Wot's up, Mister 'Olmes?"

Holmes' mind races for cover stories and ways to get the boys out of sight for a while.

"Boys, Santa has had a very long sleigh ride. Go to Lavisham's and fetch me some of their finest brandy. Here's some money. We're going to discuss your Christmas lists while you're out."

"C'mon, boys," Toby calls, and they tramp out of the flat and spill into the street before Holmes and Watson allow themselves to laugh.

"I told you you should've been Santa. You're thinner than me."

"Yes, but you told me Santa should be plump. _And_ you made me do it last year, remember?"

"Just get me out of here," Watson groaned.

"Hang on, old boy," Holmes promised.


	15. A Bee

**15\. From Domina Temporis - A bee in Baker Street**

Watson entered 221B in a very cheery mood, inhaling the scent of fresh bread baking as he hung up his coat. "Hello, Holmes," he said as he padded into the sitting room. "What are you up to?"

"Shh," his friend said softly. "We have a guest. Come closer."

Watson, well-used to his friend's eccentricities, came closer to where Holmes was sitting cross-legged on the ground, watching the window pane.

" _Apis mellifera,"_ Holmes whispered, pointing to the bee crawling over their window pane. "Remarkable creatures, Watson. The bee inhabits a society not so different from ours, in some ways more complex. They have rituals of communication, of status...I should like to study them more thoroughly, someday."

"What drove this specimen to us?"

"Inconvenience, I'd wager," Holmes smiled. "The weather has become too cold for a bee to fly. She must have sought refuge from the elements in our warmth."

"Well, I see no reason to not let her recover here until it warms a bit outside," Watson said good-naturedly. "I'm going to inquire after supper. Enjoy observing."


	16. Time Travel

**16\. From Aleine Skyfire - Holmes time-travels back in time.**

"Holmes!"

I awoke to Watson's concerned face, hovering over me anxiously.

"Watson." I sat up, then staggered back. My head was swimming.

"Holmes, I don't know how we managed to get here, but look." I grimaced at my Boswell's grim tone, and followed his hand to a sign a few feet off.

 _Welcome to Independence, Missouri. Queen City of the Trails. Founded 1827._

"Holmes, I can still smell the paint," Watson said quietly. "That sign is fresh, and if- it's crazy, but do you remember what he said before we got in the box?"

"About time," I said quietly. "Yes, I do. I am so sorry, Watson, I thought I was proving my point, not demolishing it."

"Then we must be in the year 1827, in Missouri, America," Watson said, remarkably calmly. "Now that we've established time travel is possible- shall we take advantage of this opportunity? You and I have landed in the middle of an American dram novel about the 'Wild West.'"He waggled his brows at me.

"Good old Watson," I chuckled. "I agree. Firstly, we must buy new clothing to fit in. You have your firearm, which is lucky. How good are you at accents?"

Watson cleared his throat. "Not terrible, partner," he said in a fine Western drawl.

I beamed. "Excellent."

 **(Thanks to the Doctor, because well, this was going to happen when I read the prompt)**.


	17. Lies

**17\. cjnwriter-Lies.**

John Watson considered himself an honest man. He rarely spoke falsehoods, or deceived anyone knowingly- at least, not without good reason. John Watson had a firm moral compass, and if bending the truth was the nobler option after all, he would choose it.

Most often, the lies he told were harmless. Things like, "I have an engagement," when he simply had to flee 221B, or a gritted, "I'm fine," when his leg started aching on a cold stakeout. Often, they centered on sparing the feelings of his clueless, tactless, dear flatmate. Of course, Holmes probably _knew_ when he lied- by the twitch of his eye or the tap of his leg or whatever tic he couldn't suppress. But graciously, Holmes never contracted Watson's fibs. A gift for a gift.

So though Charlotte Watson had taught her boys, "Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour," her youngest's firm moral code allowed leeway there, and he hoped the Good Lord understood.


	18. Roof

**18\. From Madam'zelleGiry - "Holmes, what are you doing on the roof?"**

I was coming back from a moonlit night under the stars with my dear Mary, humming happily to myself. I went to turn my key into our lock and heard the swish of snow falling from the roof. I backed up, craning my neck, and sighed when I saw the familiar form of my fellow lodger.

"Holmes, what are you doing on the roof?" I yelled up.

"Oh, Watson," he said, lifting his body up only slightly from where he was laying completely still in the snow, dressed in only his dressing gown and slippers. "You're back."

"What are you _doing_?" I repeated.

"Contemplating the meaninglessness of existence," he said dully.

"For God's sake," I muttered. "Did you dose?"

"Yes, does it matter?" he asked in the same dull tone.

"For the love of- I'm coming to get you. You're going to get ill."

"What does that matter to me?"

"It matters to me," I said firmly. "Stay there. I'll have to go through your window."

He did get ill; dreadfully so, but I refused to let him whine. It was entirely his own fault.


	19. Christmas With The Yard

**19\. From KnightFury - Christmas with the Yard**

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Watson murmured to Holmes, sipping his drink. The candlelight flickered over his friend's face, softening his features.

"It's been surprisingly tolerable," Holmes allowed.

"That's high praise, coming from you," Watson chuckled. "Personally, I'm very impressed. Gregson and Lestrade have barely bickered, the singing has been excellent, and so are the refreshments- almost up to Mrs. Hudson's caliber..."

"And the doctor and I truly did a wonderful job making the office Christmassy," Lestrade chimed in, appearing by Watson's side.

Holmes smiled. "I'm gracious enough to say the Yard has thrown quite a party."

"Thank our wives, they added all the classy touches," Lestrade said with a conspiratorial wink. "Now, are you ready for the gift exchange? It's about to begin."

Holmes blinked. "You put our names in?"

"Of course. Watson was technically on our payroll once, and you're at least an honorary Yarder by now."

"Thank you," Holmes said softly. "I'm sorry I don't have anything to put in."

"Yes you do," Watson grinned. "I covered us both. It's always good fun to surprise the unflappable Sherlock Holmes."

"I am certainly surprised," Holmes admitted.

"Now, now, Holmes, just you wait," Lestrade grinned. "We're doing a play based off Dr. Watson's casebook in a few minutes. You might or mightn't feel so charitable towards us after that. Can I get you some more cider?"


	20. Ice

**20\. From Aleine Skyfire - One winter adventure has near-tragic consequences.**

"Hurry up, Myc!" Sherlock whined, bouncing in place as his brother finished fastening Sherlock's coat and yanking his hat over his ears.

"Alright, little brother, we can go now," Fourteen-year-old Mycroft smiled. "Mother would never forgive me if you caught pneumonia out there."

Sherlock grabbed Mycroft's free hand and fairly dragged him outside, chattering happily about how he had begun to learn Latin while his brother was at Eton. Sherlock was expounding upon the utter dullness of the other neighborhood children, finishing with, "It's dreadfully boring with you gone," as they reached the pond. Mycroft had promised to teach Sherlock how to ice skate while he was home, and Sherlock was determined to be skilled at it by the end of the day (like he was with all things).

Sherlock refused to let Mycroft tie his skates- "I'm not a little boy, Mycroft!"- and tied them carefully himself. Mycroft pulled him onto his feet and set him on the ice, holding his wobbly brother steady.

"Alright, Sherlock, first I'm going to teach you how to balance," Mycroft said. "Start by spreading your arms out and moving very slowly. Focus your eyes ahead of you and move towards that point. Hang onto me for now so you can adjust."

"Like this?" Sherlock kept one hand in Mycroft's, but spread his other arm and fixed his gaze ahead.

"Yes, like that. Let's just walk for now."

Sherlock mastered balance quickly; finally, he demanded they move on.

"I'll let go now, and you can move faster. Bend your knees a bit forward."

Sherlock wobbled forward, then seemed to gain his footing before falling forward. Mycroft glided to him and helped him up. "That's alright, you'll fall a few times before you get it."

"Let me go again," Sherlock insisted.

After that single fall, Sherlock was grace on the ice. He zipped and glided and even managed a sort of aborted leap.

"Excellent, Sherl," Mycroft praised. "Let's get going, now, Mother and Father will be waiting."

Sherlock pouted, but skated closer. He had managed to traverse most of the pond and was currently on the opposite side.

Mycroft spotted the weak ice just before Sherlock hit it.

" _Sherlock-_ " Mycroft screamed as his little brother fell through the ice and into the freezing water.

He raced across the ice, smashing the ice hole big enough that he could reach down and try to seize his brother's coat collar. Sherlock was a fair swimmer, but he was weighed down by his clothes and the water's temperature would make it difficult for him to move his limbs. Mycroft plunged both his arms in, reaching for his thrashing little brother, and frantically grabbed for him. Finally, his hand caught, and he felt Sherlock wrap both hands around his arm as he yanked up. Sherlock's face breached the surface, and Mycroft somehow managed to haul him out of the ice spot. The ice under him was cracking, and he scooped Sherlock up and moved as quickly as he could to the safe bank.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Mycroft cried.

"C-c-cold," Sherlock said through chattering teeth.

"Come on, we're going home, and it'll be warm. Stay awake, little brother." Mycroft clutched Sherlock to his breast and started trudging home. He slapped at Sherlock anytime he tried to close his eyes. "Stay awake!"

After what felt like years of fear, Mycroft burst into the parlor. "Mother! Father!"

"What on earth-" Adelaide Holmes entered the parlor and gasped. "What happened?"

"Help me get him warm," Mycroft answered, laying Sherlock on the rug and starting to strip off his wet coat. His mother knelt and began to yank off his scarf and hat.

"Charles!" Adelaide yelled.

"What is all the commotion?" Charles said, entering from the study. "My God!" he cried as he saw the scene before him.

"Get blankets and throw more wood on," Adelaide ordered. "He's freezing."

Charles tore off and returned with blankets that his son and wife wrapped around Sherlock. He picked up his little boy and carried him close to the fire. Sherlock shivered at the heat.

"Mycroft, darling, what happened?" His mother asked.

"He fell through the ice," Mycroft said in a small voice.

"He should be alright," Adelaide said, caressing his face.

"Mycroft, weren't you watching?" His father scolded.

"Not his fault," Sherlock mumbled. "He saved me."

The Holmes parents exchanged looks over their youngest's head.

"He'll be alright," Adelaide repeated. "Don't blame yourself, darling."

"Sorry, Mycroft," Charles said, clasping his shoulder. "I was just worried about him."

"I know, Father," Mycroft said, leaning over his brother's curled up form. He knew the feeling.


	21. School books

**21\. From Garonne - School books**

John Watson pressed his nose eagerly against the train window as it began to slow. This was it- his stop! He grabbed the handle of his trunk and his school bag and began to make his way to the platform, where his parents would be waiting.

A conductor helped him lift his trunk off the train and onto the platform, and John paused and scanned the crowd for his parents.

"Johnny! Johnny!" He heard his mother's voice behind him, and turned to be enveloped in a ferocious hug.

"Oh, my boy! Let me look at you!" His mother beamed at him. "Oh, have you grown again? What are they feeding you at school?"

"Let me hug my son, Charlotte," his father laughed, wrapping his arms around him. "Ay, you have grown! You'll end up taller than I am, John."

"Hello, Father," John grinned. "Hello, Mother."

"Do you have your bags? Excellent. Let's get these loaded, James- where's the carriage?"

"Hamish is already home, he'll be happy to see you- maybe he'll tell _you_ why he failed his History examination," his father said. "He refuses t say anything to either of us, no matter how your mother coaxes."

His mother shrugged, smiling because she couldn't deny it. "I've made Floating Island pudding for dessert tonight, dear," she said. "Your favorite."

John thought his heart would burst. It was so good to be back with family after months at school, drudging away at Latin and Mathematics. His parents filled him on neighborhood gossip and news of their extended cousins as they traveled home, occasionally asking about rugby and exams. Finally, he was back at his childhood home, and the Watson bulldogs rushed him the moment he stepped out of the carriage, barking and jumping excitedly.

"They gave Hamish the same treatment," his mother said, shaking her head. " Gladstone's been stuck to him, practically. Your father doesn't play with them like you two do."

"Start unpacking before dinner," his father suggested when they deposited his trunk in his old room. John groaned, but dutifully began unfolding his socks.

Hamish stuck his head in as he was stacking his school books on his desk.

"Hello, little brother," he said, grinning. "C'mon, stop with that and come sneak some cookies with me."

John threw his school books aside and chased after his brother's laugh and Gladstone's barks.


	22. The Angel

**22\. From Domina Temporis - The angel**

"Are you ready, children?" Watson asked, settling better in his chair. The Irregulars crowded around his chair on the ground, while Holmes and Mrs. Hudson sat on the sofa.

"What's 'e gonna read?" Alfie whispered to Wiggins, who elbowed him in the ribs. "Quiet, now. 'E's startin'."

Watson opened the bound leather book with care, flipping to the page he was looking for and beginning: "And in the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent from God unto a city of Galilee, named Nazareth, to a virgin espoused to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David; and the virgin's name was Mary..."

"Wha's a virgin?" Tom asked Wiggins quietly. Wiggins paused and whispered, "I'll 'splain tha' later. Pay attention."

Watson read through Gabriel's visit and Mary's joy, then moved forward to Jesus's birth.

"And it came to pass into those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed. (And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)

"And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:) To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.

"And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn. And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men."

Watson shut the book for a moment, looking upon the children. "You hear that, boys? Peace on earth and goodwill toward men."

The boys sat and absorbed that for a moment, smiling and nestling together. Watson caught Holmes' eye, and they smiled at each other. Mrs. Hudson dabbed her eyes.

"What happens next?" Davy piped up.

Watson smiled and picked back up: "And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us..."

 **If you're not Christian or not especially religious, I hope you enjoyed the image of the boys snuggled all up despite how heavily I relied on scripture here. Everyone getting excited for the big day?**


	23. Sooty Prints

**23\. From Riandra - Sooty prints**

"We could play tag."

"Or marbles."

"Or tops."

"Or hide'n'seek."

The four Irregulars each paused to ponder what to do with this unexpected break. Mr. Holmes had been so pleased when they delivered their morning report that he gave Wiggins, Arthur, Toby and Davy the day off.

"I vote hide'n'seek," Arthur said.

"Yeah, alrigh'," Davy agreed. "Toby? Wiggins?" They nodded.

"Alrigh', I'll count to thirty, and ye all go hide," Wiggins said. He covered his eyes and starting counting loudly, "One, two..."

He reached thirty and unfolded the hands over his eyes. "Ready or not, here I come!"

Arthur grinned to himself, hidden inside an old barrel. Wiggins surely wouldn't find him here for a long-

"Got ya!" Wiggins said triumphantly as he lifted the barrel off the box.

"Hey!" Arthur protested. "How'd you get me so quick?"

Wiggins helped him jump out of the barrel and then pointed at the snow at his feet. "You left sooty footprints, Guv."

"Ach, I didn't clean my boots when I left the warehouse," Arthur frowned. "I wanna go again."

"Okay, you can this once," Wiggins allowed. "Help me find the others first."

"Oh, that's easy," Arthur giggled. "They're behind those crates."

From the crates came indignant "hey!"s.

"Oh, quit yer belly-aching, I'll count again," Wiggins chided. "Clean your boots first, Art."


	24. Santa Claus

**24\. From I'm Nova - Santa Claus.**

Holmes had held Santa Claus to be nonsense since he was very young. He had done the mathematical calculations to determine how quickly Santa Claus's sleigh would have to fly to deliver presents to each child in the world and judged it impossible when he was six. Therefore, Santa must be just a story. He tolerated the gifts his mother labeled "From Santa" for years afterwards, but told Mycroft he knew the truth so his brother wouldn't think he was a silly child.

Holmes had been of the belief that all children should know the truth about Santa for years when Watson first suggested they play Santa for the children. He had expressed as much, but Watson quickly shut him down with his Scotch stubbornness and a firm, "Don't you _dare_ tell those children Father Christmas doesn't exist, Sherlock Holmes. Children ought to believe in magic for as long as they can."

"Very well," Holmes conceded. "I'll play along. They deserve some fun." He had subsequently played along for every Christmas since, often in increasingly elaborate stunts that he had to admit made the boys giddy with excitement and brought a smile to his own face.

He had never actually _said_ anything that stated directly that Santa Claus existed, and he took some comfort in that. He had never lied to a child about it.

Then one day, after delivering his reports, little Sam Cotton asked him bluntly, "Mister 'Olmes, is Santa Claus real?"

Holmes put down his paper slowly. "Why do you ask, my lad?"

"Some of the big boys I know said he weren't," Sam said, his face troubled. "Me mam said to not listen to 'em, but I dunno. I figured you would, you're so smart en all."

"Well," Holmes said hesitantly. "I've never seen Santa Claus, and usually, I believe in what I see."

Sam's face fell. "Oh."

"However," Holmes continued. "There are many things I know to exist that I've never seen. Tigers, for instance, or the Nile River. So I suppose you just have to decide for yourself."

"Thank you," Sam said slowly.

"Remember, Sam," Holmes said, opening his paper again, "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. Perhaps Father Christmas is an improbability, but much of the world is."

Sam beamed. "Thank you, sir. Merry Christmas. I'll tell me mum what you said."

Holmes still had not lied to a child about the existence of Santa. Watson was right that children ought to believe in magic while they could. Perhaps, as Watson would say, Santa existed in everyone during Christmas, in the spirit of giving. Maybe Father Christmas could be seen in that way, and Holmes believed in what he saw.

 **Merry Christmas Eve, everyone!**


	25. Christmas

**From mrspencil - an unusual and memorable Christmas celebration.**

25 December 1914, Somewhere In France

My dear Holmes,

The most remarkable thing has happened on the front, old friend, and I find my faith restored in humanity, even as the war erodes at my soul. For weeks, the front has become more and more dangerous as each side clings to their territory. I have done my best to tend to my men, but no-man's land is a dangerous place, and frequently my commanding officers fight my leaving the trenches to reach the fallen. My limp will get me killed, they say, and they can't lose my hands. In truth, we need another medic, but there are too few medical men on the frontlines already. We simply must make due with my bad leg and aging body.

Last night was Christmas Eve. All I could think about were Violet and my children, and you alone at home. How I wished to be with you all, reading Luke and eating Christmas pudding! At first, I thought I was imagining the sounds of cheer in the distance. Then one of my men came running and told me to look over the trench. The Germans were decorating their side with such holly and baubles they could find, lighting candles on their trees, and then, Holmes, they began to sing Christmas carols. They looked so young and fresh, smiling and laughing with each other, and I scarcely realized when I began to sing to the same tune in our own tongue. I saw a young German's head snap my way, and he gestured to his comrades, who smiled at me and sang louder. Around me, my men joined in, and we all sang together in harmony. Occasionally, we had heard the other side singing before, and joined in quietly, but never had we all communed together in such peace.

We all stopped together, and then a heavily accented voice shouted out, "Merry Christmas, comrades!"

"Merry Christmas!" We shouted back.

The Germans huddled together for a moment, and then one stepped forward, waving a white flag. "We wish to call a truce on this night!" he shouted.

We turned to our commanding sergeant, who looked thoughtful. "I am going up," he said, and he climbed out of the trench, hands up. I cannot imagine his courage, crossing no-man's land, where a German sniper so minded could have killed him in a second.

They spoke for a while, and finally shook hands. Our officer came back, and said, "We are at truce. Come out, men, and be merry."

We all cautiously climbed out of the trench, and drew deeper into no-man's land, and the Germans did the same. At first, we were quiet, then suddenly, we were all men, all friends, celebrating Christ. We sang together and talked. I spoke to a young German medic about his methods in his country, and we lamented our lack of reliable supplies on the front. He even taught me a little German. We heard no artillery fire, even in the distance, just our merriment. We all began to swap small gifts. I myself traded my tobacco for a warm scarf, and a pair of socks for some chocolate. The men even mixed and played games of football, frolicking like college boys. I had to smile, thinking of my own youth.

The night grew somber for a moment, when we agreed to allow each side to collect their dead and have a joint burial ceremony commemorating our fallen friends. Germans helped bury Englishmen, and Englishmen helped bury Germans. We all mourned together, and a soldier who had some clerical training gave a collective eulogy and prayer under the starlight. We stood shoulder to shoulder, heads bowed, and when it was done, we sang "Silent Night," and the soldier gave us a makeshift Christmas mass. When he finished, we lingered together, drinking and talking, until finally, we returned to our separate trenches. Soon, the war will resume, and we will have to savagely attack our fellow man again. But not tonight. Tonight, I found the spirit of Christ and love in these men who are supposedly so different from us, and I am grateful to have seen their humanity. God bless them, every one, as well as his English children.

I miss you all dearly, and I hope you have had a wonderful Christmas. Who knows when this letter will reach you, but I am more than fine on this Christmas morning. I will do my best to remain so. Take care of Vi and the children, and of course, yourself, or I shall have to scold you terribly when I return.

Merry Christmas, old boy, and a happy New Year.

Sincerely yours,

Watson

 **This story is entirely true (minus Watson's presence, of course). On Christmas Eve, 1914, most of the front line had an informal peace agreement, and the two sides celebrated together.**

 **Merry Christmas, all! I hope you all had a glorious day.**


	26. In, Out

**26\. From Garonne- Out with the old, in with the new.**

Holmes became aware of Watson shaking his shoulder gradually. "Get up, old boy," Watson said, shaking more determinedly. Holmes groaned. "Is there a client? Is Lestrade here?"

"No, I'm afraid not, but Mrs. Hudson has need of us," Watson answered. "Get up and we can eat breakfast before beginning."

Holmes had hoped Mrs. Hudson had some sort of interesting puzzle at hand, but instead, he and the doctor had been recruited to help Mrs. Hudson clean out the junk in their various rooms. "The box room will be the most challenging," she said briskly, rolling up the sleeves of her oldest dress. "The kitchen shouldn't take too long, I keep it quite organized. I will help you boys clean the parlor," she said with a warning glance at Holmes. "And each of us will clean out our rooms."

"Why are we doing this, Mrs. Hudson?" Holmes asked, frowning.

"After Christmas, the clutter piles up," she said. "And this is just the time of year to give our old things to charity. Don't you agree, Doctor?"

"Out with the old, in with the new," Watson said cheerily.

"Don't you usually wait for New Year's to start that philosophy?" Holmes asked waspishly.

"Now, now, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Help me like a dear, and I'll make some shortbread for you. Here, take this box."

Holmes took the box with a sigh, reminding himself of his landlady's infinite patience and excellent cooking


	27. Dark

**27\. From W.Y. Traveller- Dark.**

I entered 221B determined to make my stubborn, ridiculously set in his ways fellow lodger come to my point of view. Of course, I had no guarantee he would argue with me, but we had clashed in the past over the same subject, and I could not be entirely optimistic.

"Holmes?" I called, toeing out of my boots.

"I'm in the sitting room," he answered. I entered to see him spread over the settee, with the newspaper draped over his chest. He hadn't bothered to remove his dressing gown, even though it was four in the afternoon. I had to chuckle.

"How can I be of service, my dear Watson?" he asked. "Certainly not to the police. The season, ugh. It makes the London populace too full of goodwill to commit interesting heists."

I couldn't hide my smile. "Only you, my friend, would lament goodwill towards men."

"It leaves me here with little to do but perform experiments, and Mrs. Hudson is already cross at me," he said. "But what do you wish to say to me, Watson? You are tense. You think you are going to displease me."

"I-" I had forgotten, almost, how eerie it was when Holmes seemed to read my mind with a glance. "As you know, Sport passed away while you were -gone. He was quite old for a bulldog."

Holmes laughed suddenly. "Yes, you may get another pup, Watson. I saw the hair on your trousers when you walked up. Sport and I may not have always gotten along, but I would not begrudge you the joy another dog would bring."

"Thank you, Holmes," I grinned. "Would you like a hand in picking out your new flatmate?"

Holmes shrugged. "Very well. I clearly have no other engagements. I suppose I should dress before we go."

I took Holmes to the breeders, where five bullpups were beginning to wobble around, only just straying from their mother's side.

"Hello Dr. Watson," Mrs. Carmicheal greeted me. "I didn't expect to see you so soon. Are you here to choose a pup?"

"Yes," I replied. "This is Sherlock Holmes, my flatmate."

"Well, here are the pups," she gestured. "Three boys, two girls. Mix of colors as you see."

"Do you have any opinions, Holmes?" I asked him. He shook his head. "The pup will be yours, I'm simply here to familiarize myself."

I sat on the floor and allowed the pups to climb all over me, watching them play with each other and letting them gnaw my fingers. Finally, I pointed to a small black pup. "What about him?"

" _I'd_ like if you take him," Mrs. Carmicheal piped up. "Black's a hard color to sell, most want the brindles. People don't want 'em dark like that."

"He seems a good temperament," Holmes chuckled as the pup climbed up my chest and licked my cheek.

"Then it's settled," I declared, scooping the pup up. "What shall we call him?"

" Ace? Brutus? Johannes Kepler," Holmes suggested.

The pup yipped, wiggling his entire body.

"Well, I'll be. Johannes Kepler it is," I decided. " I'll call you Joe for short, however. Let's go home, Joe."

The pup wagged his tail.


	28. Snowballs

**28\. From KnightFury - Snowballs.**

Holmes mocks me for it, but I, John Watson, middle-aged and with a leg that balks at cold, love snow. I love watching the snow fall, whether it's coming down at a leisurely pace, or furiously, blanketing all of London in white. I love seeing children frolicking in it, making snowmen and snow-angels.

And I love snowball fights. They take me back to winter breaks spent at home, dodging snowballs thrown by my brother and tripping over the bulldogs yipping in the snow.

Apparently, Holmes is not so tender about the snow. But that never stops me from pleading with him, "like a child," he says, to go out and enjoy the weather.

One such winter day, after Holmes had already refused to enjoy the snow with me, he stuck his head out the window where I was helping some Irregulars fashion a snowman (with a scarf I had stolen from Holmes wound around its neck) and called, "Watson! We have a case on! Are you coming?"

"Yes, come down when you are dressed," I called. The boys pouted. "Come, come, you can finish him while I'm gone," I encouraged.

"Aw, but that'll take not much time atall," Tobias protested. "What can we do after tha?" A wicked idea popped into my head. I leaned forward, gesturing the boys close. "I have an idea, children. While I'm gone, you should..."

I sent the boys off just before Holmes came out to the stoop. "Where did you send my force?"

"They got cold," I lied easily. "Fill me in on the details, Holmes."

We returned to Baker Street about two hours later. Holmes was deep in thought, and had said scarcely a word since we had left the crime scene. I smiled to myself as he stepped onto the stoop of 221B, his back facing the street.

I saw Wiggins' head pop around the alley, and he threw the first snowball, which slammed into Holmes' back and shattered.

"What the deuce?" Holmes yelped, turning around and glaring at me. "Watson, don't be childi-"

He was interrupted by another snowball hitting his arm.

"Now, boys!" I shouted, and at least ten snowballs were thrown simultaneously. Holmes covered his face, dodging mostly unsuccessfully.

Holmes gaped at me as the boys emerged from their hidey-holes and grinned roguishly. His eyes narrowed. "I know you were behind this, Watson."

"Guilty as charged," I said cheerfully.

"I hope you know you have declared war."

"Excellent," I replied.

"I must call in some reinforcements, since you have such impressive numbers behind you. Then it begins."

 **To be continued in the next prompt.**


	29. War

**29\. From Hades Lord of the Dead - At war.**

"What's up, Holmes?" Lestrade called as he hurried through the snow, flanked by as many inspectors as he could round up. 'You said you needed us?"

"The situation is briefly this," Holmes said. "Watson has turned my Irregulars against me and declared a snowball war. I need your backup if I am to survive."

"Snowball war?" Gregson repeated. "You called us from our jobs to throw snowballs?"

"I assure you, it is important," Holmes said with a perfectly straight face.

"Now, I don't think-" Lestrade began.

" _Bonzai!"_ Wiggins yelled, and the entire group- Hopkins, MacGregor, Gregson, Lestrade, and the rest of the lot- were all pelted with snowballs. In the distance, Watson's hearty laugh and the giggles of children could be heard.

"Oi, we'll get ya for that!" MacGregor yelled. "I think we ought stay. It's personal, now."

"I agree," Hopkins said.

"I do too," Gregson chimed in.

"Start making snowballs," Lestrade said. "Then we find them, and we strike back."

"That's the spirit," Holmes said, patting a snowball into shape.

"Get ready, you heathens, we're coming!" Gregson shouted.

"Bring it!" Wiggins yelled back.

The war was nigh. It would be full of causalities, until sheer exhaustion and dropping temperatures forced a ceasefire so all participants could warm up with cocoa and a hot fire. Neither side refused to admit they'd lost. Another war was eminent, with such a snowy winter predicted. But Watson was satisfied he had finally gotten Holmes interested in playing in the snow.


	30. Noticing

**30\. From I'm Nova - Watson notices something Holmes missed.**

"I'm telling you, Lestrade, it must be the daughter. Think of the perfume, the cipher, the fabric- it is her, I swear."

"But Marjorie is so-"

"If you say sweet, I swear, Lestrade- I have told you, outward disposition is misleading."

"Holmes," I spoke up, but he and Lestrade were squabbling so loudly they couldn't hear me at all. "Holmes!"

" _Sometime intuition is correct, Holmes!"_

 _"Sometimes!"_

"HOLMES!" I shouted.

Both men stopped. "What, Watson?" Holmes bit out.

"You're both right, I think," I said. "Look at the scarf she gave me when we left, because I had lost mine."

"Very kind of her, wasn't it," said Lestrade, looking at Holmes pointedly.

"Yes?" Holmes said impatiently.

"She told me she made it herself. Look at how poor the stitching is."

"Yes?"

"The girl's hands...I noticed them, as a doctor, I mean...she has arthritis of the hands. That's why she has difficulty stitching. I don't believe she would be physically able to commit the crime."

"Ha!" Lestrade crowed.

"But, you're right, Holmes. Everything else points indisputably to Marjorie. But it occurs to me...perhaps her twin sister has not been in France all this time after all, like we were assured."

"By God, Watson," Holmes said softly. "You are a treasure. We must find this sister at once."

"Of course," I said, my cheeks glowing with the praise. "Where do we begin?"

 **Apologies to Nova, for I love this prompt so, but a combination of my procrastination and lack of inspiration did not produce my finest work for my reply. I leave you all to imagine what the heck this case is.**


	31. Fireplace

**31\. From cjnwriter - Fireplace.**

This year, John Watson had thought, this year would be the year he and Holmes finally just toasted the New Year in with champagne by the fireplace.

This year, they wouldn't be infiltrating a smuggling ring, or in Whitehall posing as dark characters. This year, they wouldn't fall into the Thames chasing a killer, or spend it unexpectedly in Kensington with an old widow. They wouldn't spend the night in jail for either behaviors they did or did actually commit. They wouldn't break the law at all this New Year's Eve. John Watson was determined to keep his appointment with his fireplace.

For several years before Holmes had apparently died, Watson had wheedled him into coming to his and Mary's small New Year's gathering. Once she was gone, he had discontinued the tradition. Holmes had known, in that way of his, not to even suggest a gathering for the holiday- he suspected next year might be different, but not yet. "Let us just have a quiet night,"he had suggested. The idea only sounded more appealing as the incredibly hectic month of December drew on.

Nevertheless, Watson was not surprised when a messenger flew up the stairs on New Year's Eve, crying, "Mr. Holmes! An urgent message from your brother!"

Holmes' eye brightened; then he looked thoughtfully back at his friend, who was sighing as he hunted for his shoes.

"Tell Mycroft I will read this letter tomorrow morning, as I already have an appointment to keep. Also tell him he should resolve to do more legwork if he gets put out about it."

The messenger stammered out a "Very well, sir..." and scampered away. Holmes turned back to his friend, who had already sunk back in his chair and was beaming. The fireplace crackled as Holmes asked, "Would you like me to play something, Watson?"

Watson smiled. "Please do."

 **Well, everyone, we're done! I've loved this year's challenge and reading all your beautiful replies to the prompts. As per usual, I offer my 180th reviewer the chance to pick the topic of a drabble in my other, non-Christmas themed story, Tales of 221B. (Though in general, if you ever want something, PM me, I love ideas). Have a wonderful New Year's, Sherlockians; until next time.**

 **Love,**

 **Wordwielder**


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